In the beginning it was shaking,
Butterflies so bad they all came up.
And first kisses.
The shaking never went away,
But soon it was all begging.
I need you.
I miss you.
Then it was drunk phone calls while driving at night,
Now its fantasies.
And reminiscing about how the only reason we ever were
Were our self-destructive tendencies.
But I’m better now,
And you are too, right?
I haven’t been able to write
Since I last drew blood from my body,
I guess that’s a little concerning.
The act of grasping a fleeting idea
and fitting it to symbols and sounds
Of which can be comprehended
par les autres.
Mais et si je commence parler dans une langue
que vous ne savez pas?
Well, you're out of luck, I suppose.
Then, my ideas, of which are still transformed into the same alphabet,
are no longer of any meaning to you.
Ça c'est le problème avec l'amérique, par exemple--
nous sommes trop occupés avec nous-mêmes.
Il y a trop des idées que nous ne saurons jamais
simplement parce que nous parle seule l'anglais.
But sometimes, a language barrier is a good thing--
I can't understand the crude remarks from the kitchen staff at work.
smiling in my pictures
but I'm vomiting glitter
and killing butterflies;
not fatally, just enough to bandage.
self-destruction is not exclusive;
physically, maybe, but skipping meals
and writing on your wrists
will make your mother cry a hundred tears
for every picture of you with bloodshot eyes.
I'm okay, mom, please don't worry,
but knowing how much cheap perfume it takes to cover the smell of cigarettes is not something I wish I knew.
I wrote this awhile ago
while I'm a glorified
mason jar filled with
butterflies and Jack Daniels.
I want nothing short of
the entire universe
written on the back
of a crumpled up receipt,
and nothing more
than your hand
half-way down my back.
With that in mind,
I is a lonely and fragile vowel,
but U is probably the
strongest most immaculate
one of the five (sometimes six).
Our hands are meant for holding,
and our bones, molded from
stardust, not concrete,
but our tongues are as sharp
as dull razors.
Always, always, always
be cognizant of your
because what once was
will eventually slip out
from under your eyelids,
without so much as a kiss
I wish I could put my tongue
on exactly what I want
as much as I put it against yours.
I wish I could hold your heart
in my hands
instead of leaving mine in a ****** pile
I wish I was addicted to my heartbeat
after three (or four) **** rips
instead of my heartbeat
when I'm dressing to see you.
I wish I knew my mother
as well as I got to know yours
when we sat side by side
waiting for you to wake up
after swallowing a bottle of aspirin.
I wish I cut up your letters
instead of my own arms
but I can't think of any other way
to get you out of my skin.
I wish I loved myself
as much as I love you
but I wasn't lying when I said
you are the better part of me.
I saw galaxies in your eyes
and you left stardust in your footprints
but I keep it in a jar on the shelf above my bed
you're not here anymore but you are
and the voices in my head won't shut up
sometimes they sound like you
and they whisper sweet things like good morning and you're pretty
but sometimes they are your mother screaming
I can't erase the scars on my skin
maybe I wouldn't have cut my arms up if I didn't shake all the time
sometimes I am numb and empty but seeing blood run down my wrist reminds me that I'm full of pretty colors
other times I feel like I am housing the universe and I am too small to contain it
there's only one way out and you always said it was bad for me
but it's good for me I swear,
just like the drugs I force down my throat to forget ******
I can't think or form sentences right now
I am tired and I am sick
in my head
there are monsters in my head and I have not stopped to think
just typing like a machine
I am a robot to my own mind, just repeating
sequences like math but it's not numbers
it's swallowing pills or slicing my body into pretty geometric patterns
caffeine is a drug and I am awake even though I feel dead
last night I cried for three hours straight
and I was terrified of not knowing what I was capable of
suicide is not pretty
you can't romanticize it with pictures of ****** wrists and hand guns next to a bouquet of daisies
even though sometimes that's what it looks like in my head.
I'm really not okay right now.
it's funny how easily words flow through the rivers in my brain
when I write about killing myself or missing your teeth on my neck,
but as soon as I have to write an essay on a quote by Ben Franklin about his position on global affairs,
a drought occurs in my mind and I draw a blank.
it's not that I'm not smart enough;
I can't help that I am incapable of forming seamless sentences unless I'm hyped on caffeine at 3 in the morning when the rest of my world is asleep.
but here I am,
writing about a paper I can't write right now because it's only 6 pm and I'm still distracted by the light cast on my bedroom floor.